Invented
by myhandisempty
Summary: Written from a prompt for SRS 2012. "There is so much I could teach you," Crowley laments. "Oh, really?" Loki smiles at him, razor sharp and wicked, his eyebrows slanting upwards, and Crowley smirks. "Do tell."


"Well, look what crawled out of the sewer," was the comment that started it all, and Crowley's been bristling ever since.

"Connections are everything," he sneers at the other man, "and it's not like I can trust any of those mangy demons."

"And why should _I_ trust _you_? I would say I'd trust you as far as I can throw you, but…" Loki gives him a quick once-over. "Given the opportunity, I think that would be a pretty long way."

Crowley grins. His luck has been a bit on the spotty side recently, to be fair (being dragged to Hell and tortured for nearly four hundred years certainly was no picnic), but he's managed to crawl out of the Pit now, and the first being he comes across is a demigod? A trickster, on top of that? It's practically a dream come true. So, he does what he's best at. He sells it. "Souls, you daft creature. There is no one as well…equipped, so to say, as I, at making deals. You could be magnificent, yourself. Instead, you're throwing away the most valuable part. You'd be surprised what humans are willing to give up, and for the simplest things."

"So, what? I lay claim to the soul in exchange for sending them away without punishment? Where's the fun in that? Besides, I find that people rarely change, whether I give them the opportunity to or not."

"There is so much I could teach you," Crowley laments.

"Oh, really?" Loki smiles at him, razor sharp and wicked, his eyebrows slanting upwards, and Crowley smirks. "Do tell."

It's not an official deal, per say.

Sure, Loki helps him out. The god takes his sweet time about it, rounding up potential victims, following them sometimes for days at a time. He has this nasty little habit of making sure his prey is one hundred percent guilty of whatever vice or stereotypical idea or plain old crime he's stalking them for. It's a strange complex, to be sure, but Crowley lets it slide, because passing the judgment is probably half the fun for him anyway.

And sure, Crowley takes advantage of all the people Loki rounds up, because, even he can admit, the god's got real talent. He really does know how to choose the victims, can easily weed out the sniveling cowards. And every once in a while, Crowley throws the guy a bone and lets him pronounce sentence on the wretched souls, because, to be honest, he's not really sure what Loki's getting out of their arrangement. He doesn't know why, exactly, the pagan is sticking around. Sometimes, when he lets his attack dog out, Loki's eyes flash with a hint of danger, and there's…something there. Sometimes, he sees that same something in the glint of a cruel smile across the god's face. Sometimes, Crowley thinks he knows why Loki stays.

But, there has been nothing set to paper. No kissing as of yet. Both parties are still free to walk away at any time.

Crowley keeps telling himself this.

So, it's not an official deal. Not really.

"Honestly, can't you allow me some entertainment at least once in a while?"

"Sorry, darling," Crowley breathes out, and he is damn proud of himself today. Seven deals done, finalized, and not even sunrise in Chicago yet? It's shaping up to be a busy day, all things considered. "Deal's a deal. Hands tied, you know. She's free to go." He stops for a second, considers not plowing ahead, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, might as well be his life philosophy. "You, on the other hand…"

Loki's eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "Me?" he chuckles. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I think you've gotten the wrong idea. No one makes me do anything." The tone is teasing, but there are shadows in those golden eyes, hinting at something much darker, and damn if that's not tempting.

Crowley can be passive-aggressive, if need be. He can do menacing; he can be threatening at a moment's notice. However, he's always been jealous and resentful of just how _fierce_ Loki can be, how the pagan's presence can fill a room despite his small stature, a shortfall that Crowley himself has never really been able to overcome. But he tries now, pushes himself into the god's space, gives him a split second to back out before this starts, all while Loki is eying him defiantly, challenge clearly written on his face.

He doesn't know every language that exists, can't fathom how much there is that has been written that he is ignorant of, but Crowley still finds himself wishing he had a word for the way Loki tastes. _Pure_. Pure comes to mind, but it's woefully inadequate, not to mention ludicrous; the idea is completely at odds with the way the other man can twist words as well as he can his lips, with the way his mouth moves against Crowley's.

He manhandles the god down into a conjured mattress, takes whatever he wants, because Crowley's been somebody else's bitch for long enough, and the choked off noises Loki is making are _wrecking_ him.

Just as it's ending, he catches large, dark shadows on the walls, gone as soon as they appear.

"Who _are_ you?" he mumbles breathlessly, and Loki just laughs, a sparkle in his eyes.

It isn't until much later that Crowley realizes. Loki's only your bitch if he chooses to be.

So, it continues that way for a while.

Loki helps him out with soul collection; Crowley does him favors (usually of a sexual nature) and teaches all that he knows about excruciating torture in return. It's far from boring: even the most monotonous of days can be brightened up by siccing Loki on some poor, unsuspecting sap. His taste in jokes may not be as…refined as Crowley's used to, but the imagination is there, and the humor can still be appreciated. The god forbids that the demon ever mentions him to any of Hell's other forces, and let's be real: Crowley really likes moving up the ranks, taking all the credit for himself. It's no concern of his whether his part-time fuck buddy wants to be revealed or not. So, maybe it's curious. Maybe he wonders about it. But he never, not ever, goes poking, because Crowley may want to have his hand in everything, but he is no cat.

Then one day, finally, Lilith is disposed of, thanks to the stupidity of the Winchesters, whom Crowley at least has had the good sense to steer clear of, at least up until this point. He's King of the Crossroads, at last, business is booming, he's immersed in work now more than ever, and he has a plan to kill Lucifer. Things are looking up.

It's nearly a month before he realizes Loki hasn't called for him. Not once.

This is how it begins:

Two arrogant, self-serving individuals meet entirely by chance. It's not fate, and it's certainly not destiny; it's not anything other than the sheer dumb luck of being in the same place at the same time.

They fall into bed sometimes, one with laughter ringing around him, the other with a deep growling voice. It's not friendship, and it's certainly not love; it's not anything other than seeking pleasure in a world ill-suited to meet their needs.

Or so that's what they say.

This is how it ends:

A man waits in a run-down shack, swirling the last of his top-shelf around a shallow glass before swallowing it down, just as another man appears before him.

"Done saving those boys' hides already?"

No answer comes. The seated man looks up, and the face that meets him is resigned.

"I don't have much time. My brother's there…"

And maybe he'd guessed, but he's never been sure, not until now. He wants to say something, anything, but for once words aren't coming easy.

A piece of paper is pressed into his hand.

"You asked me once who I was."

Then he's gone, his golden eyes and hair vanished, nothing left behind but the neatly folded sheet.

There's a symbol written on it, the lines flowing together seamlessly. He's seen it before, only once, but he still knows what it means.

He burns it anyway. Gabriel, Loki, it doesn't matter.

Neither of them come back.


End file.
